


Familiar Stranger

by sherlockfanboy (spidersylar)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Never Met, Gen, POV John Watson, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:48:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidersylar/pseuds/sherlockfanboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter to the Familiar Stranger from the bus</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for those fics where John and Sherlock never met, especially when it's set when they're old. So here you go. And I'm sorry.
> 
> FYI: anyone waiting on an update for my other story (What Has Once Been Seen...) I'm sorry for the delay. I recently moved house, had a driving theory test (I passed!), contracted Shingles, etc etc. Not a fun past few weeks. Updates should be soon.

Dear Familiar Stranger,

 

I don't remember the day that I first saw you. It was probably over a week after we first shared a bus  that I started to notice you sitting there on the left by the window, second row from the front, long grey curls trailing down onto your navy blue scarf wrapped around your neck, your brown cane clenched protectively with both hands. Your face was striking but uncommon, and I wondered how I had never noticed you before.

You became a familiar sight to me. Always there, every morning on my way to the daily grind.

Some days you would struggle to get to your seat, the driver would start to move too soon and you'd stumble and clutch the railing nearest to you. I wanted to help. I never did. I'd spent my life helping people as a doctor, as a captain, as a son, and as a brother. I'm sorry to say that in my old age I had turned bitter and disconnected with the world. I hoped that if I had been younger I would have gotten up and helped. Maybe we would have started talking, maybe we would have become friends. I'll never know.

Winter turned to summer and there you were sitting on the left by the window, second row from the front, curly grey hair sticking up everywhere, your brown cane clenched weakly with both hands.

I always got off the bus  before you, I wondered where you were going. I hoped it was somewhere nice. To see your child(ren) maybe.

Some days I would stare surreptitiously at your hands atop your cane, the skin so wrinkled and paper thin, the veins easily viewable from a distance. It stirred long lost memories in me of my great-grandmother who died when I was 5. I remembered how the skin of her hands was thin like paper, but surprisingly soft like a baby's skin. I wondered if your hands were soft like hers.

Summer turned to winter again and there you were still. Front row now, with your little navy blue scarf back around your neck, your hands cradling your brown cane as it rested gently between your thin legs.

You looked tired every day as you shuffled slowly from the door, your hand shaking perceptibly as you clung to the rail to lower yourself into your seat. As a Doctor I couldn't help but feel a stirring of concern, as another old and lonely soul I couldn't help but empathise. We shared a similar pain, of our bodies slowly breaking down on us without our permission. I just hoped that the ache in my heart was not one that you shared also.

I had an entire two weeks off for Christmas this year, two long weeks of loneliness. Just me and the dog, Gladstone. One day as I sat by the fireplace drinking my morning tea I thought of you Familiar Stranger and I wondered if you were alone too, or if you were visiting your children via bus again. I never did figure out exactly where you were going so I stuck to that little fantasy.  It's a nice fantasy, I thought. One I would gladly have wished upon myself.

Soon my two weeks were over and there I was sitting on the bus, and there we were driving past your stop and there you weren't.

The bus was less than half full but I was acutely aware of the empty seat on the left in the front row, the lack of a navy blue scarf tucked around your neck as you clutched feebly at your precious cane.

I didn't remember the first day I saw you on that bus, but I remember the last.

I never met you officially Familiar Stranger, but I still like to cling to the fantasy in my head that you were going to see your family every day on that bus. I hope your life was as enriched as I imagined it to be. I wished I had spoken to you at least once, or offered a helping hand as you shuffled across the bus to your seat. Maybe we could have been friends. I'm sorry I wasn't the nicest stranger on the bus.

But I hope I was a familiar one. 


End file.
